Part 42 (2/2)
”Oh, are you Mr. Greeley, then?”
”No, but I shall see him soon, and I will tell him what you want. If it is to a.s.sist some poor distressed widow, you may depend upon it, he will do all he can afford, for he is a good man; his worst enemies acknowledge that.”
”No, sir, it is not Mr. Greeley, that I am to go and see, it is another gentleman in the office of his paper.”
”Who is it? What is his name? I know all of the gentlemen in that office; I can take your message to any one of them, and will do so with pleasure. Is it Mr. Dana? he is the next princ.i.p.al editor to Mr.
Greeley.”
”No, that is not the name. I cannot recollect it, now. But he is one of the editors.”
”One of the editors! Why, my girl, that paper has a dozen editors.
Perhaps, it is one of the a.s.sistants. Is it Mr. Cleveland?--no--Mr.
Snow?--no--Mr. Fry, Mr. Thayer?--no--Mr. Ripley?--no--Mr. Ottarson?”
”No, I think not, but that sounds something like it.”
”Why, my dear girl, there are a hundred men, editors, reporters, compositors, pressmen, book-keepers, and all, in that office; now, how are you going to find one that you do not know, and say you have forgotten his name?”
”May be I shall recollect it when I get there. Don't you know how names come back to us sometimes? Do you never forget names?”
”Often, but I never forget faces. I have seen yours before, but I have forgotten where, just as you have forgotten that gentleman's name.”
”Oh, sir, have you? well, I do not remember your face, but it does seem as though I had heard your voice, and, perhaps, if the room was not so dark, I should know you. The lady said, I must keep it dark, and sleep this morning. It is no wonder that I should forget everything, I was so badly frightened last night.”
”Well, I don't see how you are to find which one you wish to see, among so many, unless you can recollect his name.”
”Oh, that will be easy enough, sir. I will ask one of the gentlemen. I am sure any one of them will tell me, for I am sure they are all gentlemen, real gentlemen.”
”I do not see what it is that you are to inquire for, or who, or now to find, out which one, or anything about it.”
”Oh, sir, it is the one that wrote that little story about her daughter.”
”Her daughter?”
”Yes, sir, Mrs. De Vrai's daughter.”
A light began to dawn in my mind, and I said carelessly, ”her daughter?”
”Yes, sir, her daughter. Little Katy, in that pretty story of Hot Corn.
She is Little Katy's mother, sir, and she wants to see the gentleman that wrote that story. She did not know his name until yesterday. She thought it was Mr. Greeley, and he was out of town, and she had never seen him since Little Katy was buried, and she had moved away from where she used to live, without letting him know where she was. Yesterday she found out her mistake, and sent Phebe--you laugh--do you know Phebe?”
”Yes, yes, I know Phebe, and I know you now; I know you for a kind-hearted, good-natured girl. Your name is Agnes.”
”Oh, yes, sir, has Mrs. Morgan told you.”
Now the reader is surprised. Yes, it is Mrs. Morgan--Athalia. It was she that faced the crowd of savages that cried ”drag her out.” It was she that took poor Agnes in and gave up her own bed, and nursed and watched her all night, and sent for a physician for her. It was Agnes, the girl that you have seen in the picture with the negro wood-sawyer, and at his home when Phebe divided her bed to give the poor girl a lodging. There is some goodness yet in human nature. It was Phebe that Agnes went to see, while nursing Mrs. De Vrai. It was the latter for whom she was now so anxious to get up out of her sick bed, that she might go and tell the gentleman who wrote the story of ”Little Katy,” that Little Katy's mother was almost dying to see him. It was by that token that she would find him.
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